


"Tea Time"

by Creamteasforever



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fatlock, Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:44:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creamteasforever/pseuds/Creamteasforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit of what you like does you no harm...Sherlock gets peckish during a stakeout, in a fluffy Johnlock snippet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Tea Time"

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into ficing. Short and sweet, not much to say about it. I was testing the form, but it hangs together cohesively enough. Fatlock fic prompted by kamekdrawsblobs musing about Sherlock’s behaviour after a lull in investigations: “when cases pick back up again he tries to go back to not eating on cases and he can’t do it because he’s just too hungry”. 
> 
> Enjoy!

If the universe offered John Watson a choice between stakeouts and high-speed chases, he’d have picked the latter, every time. On an unexpected chase, you were adrenaline-fuelled, alive and eager to do justice and save the client/London/the world. On a stakeout, you sat around being bored for hours on end and had Lestrade on stand-by in case anything truly dangerous happened.

 

Because the universe didn’t, sadly, worry about John Watson’s preferences, in the last fortnight he and Sherlock been forced into half a dozen long and tedious stakeouts. This was number seven, and they were expecting a Hostile But Probably Not All That Violent white-collar criminal to recoup to his flat next the deserted one they were hiding in, which meant no element of personal danger to stir the blood. John sat down on the hard wood floor, sipped at a thermos of coffee, but found himself yawning regardless. The flat held no furniture, which might have been just as well; if he’d found a stray chair he’d have been tempted to fall asleep in it.

 

Sherlock looked bright and unwearied, as usual, but it took no great deductive skills to tell he was taking the enforced waiting even worse. He paced up and down, scribbled down Sudoku puzzles and solved them himself, stared moodily out the window, picked fluff off his scarf. Eventually he wandered over to the exact middle of the floor and lay down flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

 

“Shouldn’t you be over here by the door with me? Ready for action?”

 

The detective snorted. “I did tell you that we’re early. Our suspect probably won’t be here for another hour, at least, but I told Lestrade that we’d have him in tonight. I didn’t care to take the chance of missing him.”

 

“Wait. So we arrived here, well ahead of time, just so you’d have yet another opportunity to prove to poor Lestrade that you’re infallible?”

 

“So that we wouldn’t allow a criminal to walk free any longer then necessary,” Sherlock insisted, with a slightly haughty pout that John found amusing. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to do this again tomorrow, would you? This should be the last stakeout for a while, thank goodness.”

 

“I suppose you have a point there,” John admitted. He gazed over at his partner; the one benefit of stakeouts was that they gave him all the opportunity to stare at Sherlock he could have ever wanted, there not being much else to do anyhow. Just now the detective was breathing slowly and composedly, his fingers not arched but clasped over his breastbone. They really did need more exercise, John considered; what with all the sitting around they’d been doing lately, and the fattening take-outs they’d scarfed down between times, Sherlock had definitely put on a little pudge. Not too much, but there was a definite roundness to the belly under his creamy white shirt. Rather attractive, really…

 

A deep, echoing grumble filled the room. Sherlock sat up rather abruptly, flushing pink and holding a hand to his stomach. John chuckled.

 

“Bit hungry, Sherlock?”

 

“Unexpectedly…well, yes. Ridiculously so, in fact. I don’t eat on cases, you know that.”

 

“You’ve probably confused your metabolism,” John said lazily. “The last couple weeks, you’ve gone between eating normally, or as normally as you ever do eat, and not eating at all on an almost daily basis. And there’s nothing very intellectual about this exercise, it’s just a matter of waiting here, so it’s barely even a case for you at this point. Besides, it’s nearly seven.”

 

“Seven?”

 

“It’s tea-time, of course. You were eating this time yesterday.”

 

Sherlock’s stomach growled ravenously again. He pressed both hands against it, rather self-consciously.

John tried very hard not to giggle.

 

“I’m going to have to keep in mind that you’re unable to check your laugh reflex, John. This really isn’t especially funny.”  
  
“If you say so, O Great Detective,” John said, banishing a smirk from his features through what felt like a heroically unappreciated effort. He pulled a packet out of his jacket pocket and began to unwrap it, enjoying the crinkle of the waxed brown paper. “I’ll just sit here and eat a couple of sandwiches. Since, unlike you, I do eat on cases.”

 

Sherlock glazed over into what John recognised as the Deduction Mode. “Let’s see. The scent of mustard is unmistakeable, you prefer pickles on your sandwiches in all cases when appropriate and some where it definitely isn’t, and there was a package of roast beef due to expire tomorrow. Knowing your tidy habits, that would have been used up today. The bulge in your pocket was consistent with three sandwiches of the dimensions you’ve holding, which are incidentally made with that Hovis bread that you invariably purchase, even though you know I prefer white.”

 

“Well deduced.”

 

John bit happily into his sandwich and chewed it luxuriously, savouring its simple but well-fitting interplay of tastes. Sherlock, having run out of commentary, was staring off into the distance and very carefully not at John.

 

“Aren’t you going to ask for one?”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock said firmly, though rather loudly over the sound of his stomach gurgling away. He’d gone quite red by this point.

 

John picked up his second sandwich, crawled over, and carefully stuffed it into the detective’s mouth. He studied the effect thoughtfully and took another bite from his own.

 

“Like that?”

 

“Mmpth mmm,” said Sherlock. He gently prised away John’s hand and took hold of the roast beef, gulping it down eagerly.

 

“Good. Toffee Crisp for dessert. You didn’t deduce that.”

 

“You’re always carrying chocolate. That wouldn’t even count as a deduction…”  
  
John laughed and settled down next to Sherlock. Maybe, he thought, stakeouts weren’t as bad as all that. after all.


End file.
